


Une Voix Émue

by WroughtBetwixt



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Child Loss, Comfort Sex, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional Sex, Episode: s01e23 Sacrifice, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Foe Yay, Forgiveness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Past Character Death, Series Spoilers, Sleeping Together, Suicide Attempt, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, post-Undertaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WroughtBetwixt/pseuds/WroughtBetwixt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm's broken. Oliver knows it. But if he takes a chance, maybe he can save Malcolm, like Tommy wanted. Maybe he can put him back together, or at least give the pieces a place to fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Irascible

**Author's Note:**

> Irascible: One of two divisions of sensuality, the instincts associated with competition and aggression. Associated with anger, despair, fear and hope. 
> 
> Set post-Undertaking, between the season 1 finale and the season 2 premiere. I wanted a divergence from canon where Oliver doesn't go to the island alone, where we see the effects that Tommy's death had on Malcolm. This is what it turned into. Please be gentle, I am not well-versed in writing explicit sexual content; this is like my second attempt. ♥ Hope you enjoy.

It was the morning after. 3am.  
  
Oliver sat on his bed, staring into open space. He couldn’t stand the noise anymore. The reporters, the news blaring on the televisions and radios, Dig and Felicity, the whispers at the club whenever he walked into the room. He couldn’t stand seeing Lauren, seeing her face. He couldn’t stand seeing Thea’s face. There was so much anger, so much sorrow. It seeped into him like a poison; he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Instead, he hid.  
  
The news hadn’t mentioned Tommy yet, but they would, once they realized they couldn’t find Malcolm. Oliver couldn’t. If he couldn’t, the police wouldn’t. The news wouldn’t. They’d write him off as dead. The fall of the Merlyn empire. Oh, but they still had a story. His mother, and her arrest. The death toll, rising and rising. Tearful faces, holding up pictures of missing loved ones and begging for help.  
  
He had to get out. Oliver looked around the room, then stood and began to shove things in a suitcase. He didn’t even really look at what he was packing. Clothes. First aid kit. It didn’t really matter. Just enough so he could get away, go away, somewhere, anywhere. The island. He knew someone who would take him back. It was the one place he knew no one would find him, the one place where no one would think to look for him. Not for a while. It called to him, sang in his blood. He belonged there. He never belonged here, not in this jungle of twisted steel, broken concrete and bloody bodies.  
  
Oliver’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it out of habit. He stared at the caller ID. Stared too long-- the phone went silent, went to voicemail. Oliver kept staring, and soon it rang again. This time, this time he picked up.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
Malcolm’s voice trembled on the other end of the line. “Where is he? Oliver, where’s Tommy?”  
  
Oliver said nothing. His voice was lead in his throat.  
  
“Please. I can’t find him. Oliver, did... Do you know where he is?”  
  
“He’s dead.”  
  
Oliver hung up the phone. Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him to hell. How dare he. How dare he even... that son of a bitch. Oliver snarled, throwing the phone on the bed. It kept ringing. He grabbed it and turned it off, shoved it in his jeans pocket. Should have killed him, he growled to himself as he shoved more things into the suitcase, closed it up and stormed out of the room. Out of the house. Didn’t look back, not even once.  
  
When he got outside, he stood next to his motorcycle and leaned his hands on the cold metal. Someone. He should at least tell someone that he was leaving. Make up some stupid fucking story about needing a trip to Europe, something. At least then, Thea would know where he was, and if he never came back, well... she’d assume that he ran off with some giggly bimbo. At least all his life-long lying and pretending had been good for the whole straight, white, rich party boy image. She’d buy it. Whatever.   
  
Oliver brought his phone out, turned it on and went to open a text message. Five missed calls. Three voicemails. All from Malcolm. Anger boiled his blood. He hit the button for his voicemail, listening to whatever was left for him. He wanted to know. He wanted to know so that when he called Malcolm back and let loose the lightning storm building in his chest, he’d know what bullshit excuses would be waiting for him. But Oliver listened, at first hearing nothing, and then a quiet, broken sob. Malcolm Merlyn, the Black Arrow, destroyer of the Glades, was crying.  
  
“Please, Oliver. Please pick up. Tell me it’s not true. Please. Please tell me you’re just... You’re just trying to hurt me. Please pick up.” The message ended. The next began, starting out angry and ending desperate. “Oliver, goddamn it. You can’t do this to me. Just tell me where he is, and I can help your mother get out of this. Oliver, you’re like family to me. Please just call me.” Click. Another, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t do this. I’m sorry. I know I fucked up. Please just pick up. I can’t do this. I can’t.”  
  
The messages ended. Oliver’s hand was shaking. From anger or grief or something else, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was standing there, phone still in hand, and something in Malcolm’s voice made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something wasn’t right, and damn it all, Oliver found himself dialing Malcolm’s number. It rang three times, and then he heard the line pick up. No response.  
  
“Malcolm?” He could hear breathing, ragged. “C’mon, Malcolm. Talk to me.”  
  
The reply was weak. “Oliver. Please.”  
  
Damn it. Oliver got on his motorcycle, slipping his gloves on. “Where are you?”  
  
There was a quiet murmur of an address. Oliver knew the run down hotel, about thirty minutes outside of the city. Hanging up the phone, he secured his helmet and started the bike, flying out of the mansion’s drive and taking the less-trashed roads out of Star City. The cops were too busy to bother with speeding tickets, and Oliver allowed himself to drive as fast as he was able. Ten minutes later, and he pulled into the hotel parking lot. Maybe it was a trap, he thought as he rushed up the stairs, glancing at apartment numbers. Even if it wasn’t, and he knew it wasn’t what was he going to find? What was he going to do when he found Malcolm? There were only so many options, and... Oliver paused outside the correct apartment door.   
  
The door was locked. There was no answer when he banged on the thin, feeble wood. Growling, Oliver forced the door with little effort, searching the apartment. He found Malcolm in the bathroom, curled on the floor with an open bottle of sleeping pills in his hand. Empty.  
  
“Malcolm, goddamnit it,” Oliver hissed. He threw open his bag, grabbing the herbs he’d tucked away and shoving them into the man’s mouth. “Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking dare do this.”  
  
A long minute passed, and suddenly Malcolm’s eyes flew open. He choked, sputtered, and Oliver held onto him as he began to heave into the open toilet. Half an hour later, and Malcolm finally sagged in Oliver’s arms, shaking, gasping and sweating. The last round had been nothing but bile, and this had been dry; all the pills had been thrown up. Another half an hour passed. Malcolm’s face was buried in Oliver’s neck; he was still soaking with sweat, and Oliver could tell that the man was crying, but the shivering had slowed to a stop, and his breathing and pulse were normal. Oliver stayed curled around him, gently brushing his fingers through Malcolm’s hair.  
  
“Tell me it’s not true,” Malcolm whispered soon after, voice sounding like broken glass. “Please.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words were hollow. “He died in the quake.”  
  
Malcolm shuddered. “How?”  
  
“Lauren was in the office. The building started to come down. Tommy ran in to save her. She got out, but Tommy...” Oliver stopped, swallowing; he couldn’t get his throat to work, and everything felt so numb. “He didn’t make it.”  
  
“It’s my fault. I did this. I killed my own son.”  
  
“Malcolm, you killed a lot of people’s sons.”  
  
Oliver regretted it the moment he said it. Malcolm pulled back, staring at Oliver. Silently, he rose to his feet; he stumbled, but managed to walk. Oliver was on his heels, reaching out as Malcolm limped into the kitchen at headed towards a block of kitchen knives.  
  
“Hey!” Oliver grabbed Malcolm, yanking him back and wrapping his arms tight around the man as he began to fight back. “Stop, Malcolm. Stop.”  
  
He struggled against Oliver, but he was too worn, and too weak; panting, he slumped back against Oliver. “Let me do it. Let me go, and I’ll do what you should have.”  
  
“You know what his last words were? The last thing Tommy said to me? He thanked me for not killing you.” He stopped, letting the words sink in. Malcolm stopped fighting, and Oliver slowly began to relax his iron-tight grasp. “Tommy’s last thoughts were about you, Malcolm. He loved you. He wanted you to live.”  
  
Silence. “Stay with me? Just for a little bit?” he finally asked. Malcolm opened his mouth, then shut it again and swallowed hard. He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t... I’m not safe. I’m not safe from myself.”  
  
Oliver let Malcolm go, but still kept an arm around his waist for support. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “And neither are you.”  
  
Malcolm didn’t reply, his gaze glued to the floor; he allowed Oliver to lead them to the bedroom, sinking to the bed as Oliver finally let go of him. Oliver brushed Malcolm’s hair from his face and gave the man a look-over. There was blood seeping through his damp shirt; Oliver realized Malcolm hadn’t even dressed the wound Oliver had given him the night of the quake. Moving quickly, Oliver went and got his bag, digging around the bathroom and finding everything he needed. He came back and peeled off the shirt, wincing at the raw, oozing wound. Malcolm didn’t resist. Oliver dabbed both sides of the wound with a wet cloth, then antiseptic; he covered the wounds with sterile gauze and taped them. It’d be better for now than stitching them shut, just in case they’d gotten infected. Oliver slid a hand under Malcolm’s chin, tilting his head up and shining a tiny light into Malcolm’s eyes. The pupils reacted, looked normal.   
  
Letting out a sigh, Oliver removed his hand and flopped on the other side of the bed, leaning against the wall behind it and closing his eyes. The minutes ticked by as Oliver took deep breaths, letting his nerves unwind and his panic to quell. He opened his eyes when the bed moved, sheets rustling, and he felt a light pressure on his shoulder; Malcolm was curled next to him, resting his forehead against Oliver. For a moment, Oliver considered shoving him off, but then his arm went up, fingers lightly stroking along the back of the man’s neck in a gesture of comfort. Within a few moments, Malcolm’s breathing slowed and deepened; he was sleeping.   
  
An hour passed. As Malcolm slept, Oliver thought.  
  
As angry as he had been, Oliver knew they were both tired, and both injured in ways that went far beyond the physical. And despite what Malcolm had done, Oliver felt the anger inside of himself at war with the affection he’d once held for the man. The anger stemmed from betrayal, and the betrayal came from the fact that he had seen Malcolm as part of his own family. After all, Malcolm has once been like Tommy-- warm, quick to laugh, and gentle despite his boisterous, mischievous nature. Time and loss had hardened him, and as much as Oliver wished this morning that he could put a dozen arrows in Malcolm...   
  
Oliver opened his eyes. He had an idea. It was a stupid idea, even stupider than taking off by himself. But if there was any chance of keeping Malcolm from spiraling even worse, he had to take it. For Tommy. Shifting a bit, Oliver stood up, moving as quietly as possible; Malcolm still woke up, mistrust in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” Oliver assured him. “Just getting some water.”  
  
Malcolm nodded and sat up, curling up against the back wall; he was watching Oliver, probably still suspecting that Oliver was going to kill him. Glancing around the room to make sure there were no more weapons in sight, Oliver left and paced the apartment a moment before heading into the bathroom and shutting the door. Tommy’s last wish had been for Oliver to spare Malcolm. Maybe, just maybe, there was something in Malcolm worth saving. Flipping open his phone, Oliver scrolled through his unnamed numbers and hit one, calling in his connections for a plane to the island. The arrangement was settled in minutes.  
  
Walking to the kitchen, Oliver fumbled about, making a quick couple mugs of tea that he found tossed on the counter. It was hot water and mint, and probably tasted like shit, but he knew the warmth would help them both. Malcolm stared at the food when Oliver came back to the bedroom, sitting on the bed and holding it out to him. “Here. Drink.”  
  
Malcolm glanced up at Oliver; after a long moment, he reached out and accepted the drink. He paused just as the mug touched his lips, smelling it for poison no doubt, before taking a sip. Success. “Thank you,” he murmured, curling around the mug.  
  
They sat in silence, watching each other every so often over their drinks, lost in their own thoughts. Oliver knew he could stop here, leave Malcolm to rot in his misery. It’s what he deserved, after all, wasn’t it? But then Malcolm set the mug down on the nightstand, leaning against the wall; he was still for a time, before the tears started again. What Malcolm did was unforgiveable. But to leave him here like this, to let him destroy himself... Oliver knew that would be unforgiveable, too. And if Oliver just handed him over to the police, allowed him to be imprisoned, he knew Malcolm wouldn’t stand a single chance in Iron Heights. At least Oliver knew his mother, responsible but indirectly so, had some chance of staying safe. Not so for Malcolm. He’s be dead within a day, as surely as if Oliver had killed him outright.  
  
That wasn’t an option.  
  
“I’m going back to Lian Yu. Tonight.” Oliver hesitated. He drew his knees up to his chest, thinking over his choice one last time before letting the words manifest. “Come with me, Malcolm.”  
  
Lifting his head, Malcolm fixed his green, bloodshot eyes on Oliver. “The island? Why?”  
  
“It’s where I found myself. Maybe you can find yourself again, too.”  
  
“It’s too late.” He blinked away the tears, but his voice still cracked when he spoke. “I can’t fix this. What I did... I can’t go back.”  
  
“No. You can’t change what you’ve done. You can’t bring Tommy back.” Staring down at his hands, Oliver thought about all the lives he’d taken since he’d returned. He thought about how much of what he’d done had been guided by revenge. “But you can choose where you go from here. You can let go of the anger, and the hate, and choose not to lash out at everyone else. You can honor him by choosing to protect the city, all of it. Not just get revenge.”  
  
Malcolm held Oliver’s gaze, then looked out the window. The dark smudges under his eyes made more evident by the thin, pale sunlight streaming through the window grime. After a heartbeat, his head and shoulders dropped, almost in defeat. “How?”  
  
“I’ll show you.” Tommy’s voice, hissing _murderer_ , swirled in his memory; Oliver knew he and Malcolm weren’t so different after all. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure how much of what he said was meant for Malcolm, and how much was meant for himself. “We can find a new way, a better way. Together.”  
  
After a long while, Malcolm turned his gaze back to Oliver. He nodded, just a little. “Show me.”  
  
So many emotions were etched in those words-- sorrow, regret, desperation. Hope. And maybe, Oliver allowed himself to think, maybe there was a little hope, after all. Maybe Tommy didn’t die in vain.


	2. Concupiscible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concupiscible: One of two branches of sensuality, the instincts associated with avoidance and pursuit. Associated with joy, sadness, hate, love, and desire.

They’d been on the island for a month and thirteen days.  
  
Oliver knew the exact days after, because it had been a month exactly when something had changed between him and Malcolm, and thirteen days since then. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was that had caused the changed. What he did know was that they had arrived on Lian Yu the night of the full moon, and it was a full moon again when it had happened. Oliver had taken Malcolm to his favorite place on the island-- a little cliff in the forest, overlooking the jungle, where you could see the moon and sun rise over the sea like massive ivory and gold gemstones.  
  
It had been a hard choice; Shado was buried nearby, along with his father and Yao Fei. But thirty days had gone by, and though Oliver knew they both had a long way to go, the island had already done them both good. Malcolm had become softer, warmer, more like the man Oliver remembered. He seemed almost at peace, at least when he was awake. They spent the days running, swimming, training, hunting, telling each other stories about their exploits... and about the loved ones they’d lost. It was hard to talk about the night Tommy died. It always would be. But a few days short of month into their stay, a month of talking and trying to understand, and Oliver could almost see himself forgiving Malcolm. Almost.  
  
The nights were harder. Some nights were peaceful. They would make camp and lay there, listening to the sea, and to the wild dogs howling in the mountains, until they fell into dreamless sleeps. But there were many nights, too many nights, where one or the other or both would toss and turn, crying in the night until one woke the other up, or until one woke them both up with their screams. And this night, the night that Oliver took Malcolm to that special place, was one of the worse nights.  
  
It had been early in the morning. For Oliver, the night had proved benevolent, deep and restful... at least until he was shocked awake by a painful, mournful wail. Oliver sat up, knowing without looking that Malcolm had been less fortunate. Moving across the plane to the cot where Malcolm slept, Oliver rested his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, speaking gently to him until he woke a few moments later. He sat up fast, staring through the darkness at Oliver. Malcolm said nothing, but he leaned and pressed his face into Oliver’s side, shoulders shaking, and Oliver knew.  
  
“Come on,” Oliver said softly. “I have somewhere I want to show you.”  
  
Malcolm didn’t question it. He followed Oliver through the trees, pressed close behind him. It was rare that Oliver knew Malcolm to be afraid, but that night, he was; Oliver slowed, allowing Malcolm to walk at his side. They reached the graves a few minutes before moonrise, the faintest touch of sapphire lightening the shadows. Malcolm stopped, looking at the three graves, then looking to Oliver. He still said nothing, but he stayed there a moment, his fingers lightly brushing Robert’s crude headstone. Oliver sat on the smooth rocks of the overhang, watching as brilliant rays of moonlight broke over the horizon; Malcolm joined him a moment after, as the barest hint of the moon herself began to appear.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” Malcolm finally said, awe in his voice. “Absolutely beautiful.”  
  
Oliver hummed an agreement, watching the moon rise and turn the dark water into shimmering silver. The light stretched out, washing over them; Oliver closed his eyes a moment, soaking it in and feeling his soul unfurl like a datura flower. He wasn’t religious, but there were moments like this that he almost felt it. When he opened his eyes and looked over at Malcolm, he could see wonder in those emerald eyes of his, and Oliver knew he felt it, too. Suddenly, Malcolm was looking at him, and that’s when Oliver sensed it. Some little change, some little shift.  
  
Oliver stayed there a moment more, then stood and offered Malcolm a hand when he heard a faint howl in the distance. Malcolm looked at Oliver’s hand, before taking it and pulling himself to his feet. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say something, but he gave a small shake of his head and headed for the trees. They walked back in silence, as they’d come, moonlight making the trip home easier than the trip out. When they got to the plane, it was filled with silver light, like everything else on the island; it was the time Oliver loved most, sleeping in that glow. He stopped and looked around, still not used to seeing everything, to being home, but he stopped when his eyes fell on Malcolm, and he noticed Malcolm was looking back at him again.  
  
“Oliver...” Malcolm started, then stopped. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaking breath. “I just... Thank you. I needed that.”  
  
Oliver tilted his head a bit. “You deserved something a bit nicer than another nightmare,” he replied. He paused, a bit surprised to realize he meant it. “I want you to be happy someday, Malcolm. I want you to heal.”  
  
Malcolm stared a heartbeat longer, then dipped his head. Oliver could see tears sliding down his cheeks, catching in the moonlight; he moved to Malcolm’s side, entering his space and lifting his hands to gently cup Malcolm’s face between them. Letting out a hitched breath, Malcolm turned his face up to Oliver, searching Oliver’s eyes for... who knew what. But whatever Malcolm found, it caused the tears to flow harder, and Oliver found himself crying alongside him.  
  
“I forgive you,” Oliver whispered, the words slipping from his mouth. “I forgive you, Malcolm. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Suddenly, Malcolm was in his arms, face buried against Oliver’s neck as choking sobs shook his body. He seemed fragile then, so hopelessly fragile. Oliver curled around him, murmuring soft words into his hair. When Malcolm seemed to run out of tears, Oliver pulled back a little, brushing a thumb over his cheek. Leaning into the touch, Malcolm glanced up. There was a heartbeat of pause, and then Oliver leaned in, Malcolm’s eyes fluttering shut as Oliver’s lips pressed gently against his own. Oliver’s eyes closed as Malcolm kissed back; it started soft, sweet, but then Oliver pressed a little harder, and he could feel Malcolm’s lips part, just a little. Oliver mirrored the move, and he could feel the tentative touch of Malcolm’s tongue on his own, but... But then Malcolm wrenched away, panting, and Oliver realized he was breathing equally hard.  
  
“I'm sorry. That wasn't what I... I should get some sleep,” Malcolm stammered as he headed towards his side of the plane. “Goodnight, Oliver.”  
  
Oliver retreated himself, mind spinning. “Goodnight, Malcolm.”  
  
And the next morning, it was as if nothing happened. At first, Oliver thought perhaps it was for the best. Then a day passed, three days, seven days... twelve, thirteen days... Oliver glance at the moonless sky. Fourteen, he corrected himself. He knew it hadn’t been forgotten, even though he almost wished it had, and he knew at some point they’d have to talk about it. As much as he dreaded the idea, Oliver knew they’d _have_ to; it wasn’t something that could just be left there. But by day fourteen, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Oliver could feel it under his skin, a sort of itching, and as they were getting ready to settle into bed for the night, Oliver almost brought it up.  
  
He didn’t. He stood by Malcolm’s cot, opened his mouth to speak, but the look of fear in Malcolm’s eyes was enough to silence him. Maybe it had been simple: it was a bad night, and they were lonely people looking for a warm body to cling to. It wouldn’t be the first time Oliver had found himself on this island, in that sort of situation; his mind briefly turned to Fyres and everything connected to that mess, but he stamped out the memories and backed off, tucking himself into his own cot and deciding to leave Malcolm alone. Maybe Oliver was the only one confused. Closing his eyes, he ignore the ache in his abdomen and tried to sleep.  
  
It wasn’t meant to be. In the night, a storm rolled up, howling through the trees and sending cold, cutting winds through the plane. Oliver quickly woke, rolling down the heavy covers for the doors and securing them with rocks. It wouldn’t do much for the leaky roof, and it was still a noisy roar outside, but at least it helped against the chill. Oliver sighed, rubbing some of the rain from his face and hair; he was about to turn off the small lamp when he realized Malcolm was awake, curled in a ball on his cot.  
  
“Hey,” Oliver greeted quietly, moving closer. “You okay?”  
  
“Fine,” Malcolm replied. “I’m fine.”  
  
There was a sudden crack of thunder, and Malcolm curled up tighter. Oliver reached out, holding his hand palm up to Malcolm. “You’re not fine. Come on. My side of the plane is less leaky.”  
  
For a second, Malcolm didn’t move. Finally, after another loud rumble, Malcolm took Oliver’s hand; the man was freezing cold, and damp. It was one thing about the island. Storms like this were rare enough, but when they hit, they could be miserable. Oliver had long ago comes to peace with them, but he never had minded a storm, even after that night on the Queen’s Gambit. Malcolm on the other hand was gripping Oliver’s arm so tight it hurt, and he couldn’t help but be momentarily amazed that the man, so fearless otherwise, was afraid of thunder.  
  
When they got back to Oliver’s cot, Oliver gave Malcolm the wall-side of the bed; it would be warmer, drier, and Oliver knew it would feel safer. Malcolm didn’t argue. He flattened himself against the wall, huddling under the blanket Oliver offered him. Oliver settled down himself, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He stayed awake, keeping an eye on Malcolm. Every time there was a crack of lightning, Malcolm jumped, and it only got worse as the storm got closer. Oliver reached out, putting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder; Malcolm looked at him, uncertain, then slowly edged closer. One more particularly bad thunderclap rang out, rattling some of the equipment in the plane, and that was all it took. Malcolm was suddenly pressed against Oliver, shaking.  
  
“It’s okay,” Oliver murmured into Malcolm’s ear, curling his arm around him and holding him tight. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”  
  
Malcolm shuddered. He didn’t reply verbally, but Malcolm relaxed against Oliver, just a little. Oliver tucked the blanket around them both, settling in for a long night. An hour passed by, maybe two, when the storm finally calmed into a heavy but quieter downpour. At first, Oliver thought that maybe by some miracle, Malcolm had somehow managed to fall asleep; he hadn’t said a word, and was breathing steady and deep. But then Malcolm glanced up at Oliver, seeming just as surprised by the fact that Oliver was awake.  
  
“You didn’t go to sleep,” Malcolm said, frowning. “Aren’t you tired?”  
  
“Well... Yeah, a bit. But I wanted to be awake in case you needed me.”  
  
He stared. Shaking his head, Malcolm leaned back in, curling into Oliver’s warmth; he fell silent again, but this time, Oliver could feel Malcolm’s breath ghosting along the side of his neck. Oliver closed his eyes, trying to ignore it. Ridiculous. It was an accident, it’s not like Malcolm was doing it on purp... But then Oliver’s thought ground to a halt as Malcolm’s head tilted, just a tiny bit, his lips pressing oh so lightly to the underside of Oliver’s jaw. Oliver tipped his head instinctively, mind blanking out as Malcolm kissed his throat, harder but still tentative.  
  
Moving his hand to Malcolm’s back, Oliver stroked between the man’s shoulderblades, smiling a bit at the way Malcolm relaxed into the touch; he leaned, bringing his lips to brush against Malcolm’s ear. “Is this what you need?”  
  
“And if it is?”  
  
There were so many words that swirled in Oliver’s head, but not a single one of them managed to work their way out. Instead, Oliver pressed a kiss under Malcolm’s ear, his hand slipping lower and resting on Malcolm’s hip. His finger curled there, pulling Malcolm against him as began to kiss lower, down to where he could feel Malcolm’s pulse. It was already racing, and Malcolm had an arm curled around Oliver’s, gripping his back like he was trying to convince himself it was real.  
  
Oliver pulled back, just enough to look into Malcolm’s eyes. Malcolm was shaking, and Oliver could see the unspoken fear in his eyes. The fear that somehow Oliver would suddenly just wake up, change his mind, and it’d be over. Oliver took that moment to slide his hand down, stroking over the curve of Malcolm’s ass and pulling their hips together without so much as even blinking. Malcolm’s lips parted in a sharp intake of air; Oliver closed the last few inches of space between them, claiming Malcolm’s mouth hard and fast. He didn't need time to think about it. He wanted this, and goddamn it, he was going to make sure Malcolm knew it.  
  
Malcolm started to edge closer to Oliver, one hand moving to gently press against Oliver and guide him onto his back. Oliver snatched Malcolm’s wrist, resisting the push. He met Malcolm’s gaze, his voice almost a growl. “I top.”  
  
Malcolm’s pupils dilated in the low light. He gave a small nod of his head, letting out a breathy sound of pleasure as Oliver pushed him on his back, hand still gripping his wrist and pinning it above his head. Oliver hummed, straddling Malcolm’s body and pinning his other arm before leaning down and kissing him again. Malcolm moaned into Oliver’s mouth, back arching to press up between Oliver’s legs. Grinding back, Oliver smirked against Malcolm’s lips as the man let out a frustrated whine. He slipped his hands from Malcolm’s wrists, propping himself up with one arm and moving the other under Malcolm’s shirt; his nails raked down bare flesh, stopping at Malcolm’s waistline. Oliver hooked a finger in the black jeans and tugged lightly, and he grinned when Malcolm whimpered.  
  
Straightening a bit, Oliver leaned and reached under his pillow, finding a small plastic bottle.  
  
“You brought...” Malcolm swallowed, his voice thick with lust. “You actually brought lube, of all things.”  
  
“The island gets lonely,” Oliver replied. He pulled back, sliding between Malcolm’s legs and resting on his knees; he trailed a finger along Malcolm’s thigh, chuckling when the muscles twitched under his touch. “Now... c’mere.”  
  
Malcolm obeyed, sitting up and moving to his knees. For a moment he seemed unsure, but Oliver just lifted an eyebrow, and the boyish challenge there was fuel to the fire. Reaching out, Malcolm touched Oliver’s face; he kissed Oliver lightly as he unbuttoned Oliver’s shirt, tracing over the scars he found as he worked his way down. But the time he reached Oliver’s pants, his hands were shaking. It’d been so long, so damn long, and fuck, he wanted this just as much as Oliver did. Maybe more. At that thought, Malcolm looked away, resting his forehead on Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver was _real_. He was really there, and god, he smelled like the forest and like sex, and Malcolm just wanted to lose himself. Forget everything. Forget who he was, who they both were. But goddamn it, Oliver _wanted_ him, and how... how could he?  
  
“Hey.” Oliver's voice was in his ear, soft. Kind. “You can change your mind. We don’t have to do this.”  
  
“Why would you even _want_ to?” Malcolm asked, trying to keep his voice steady. It cracked anyways. “After all I’ve done...”  
  
“Look at me.” The command was gentle, but a command all the same. Malcolm met Oliver’s gaze. He was solid, warm, and the unbridled desire in those blue eyes... “Do you want to stop?”  
  
Malcolm felt a painful, hot pulse in his groin at the idea of stopping. His mind and heart may have been torn, questioning, but his body knew exactly what it wanted. “No.”  
  
“Then please, try to believe me when I say it’s because I want to take care of you,” Oliver said. “After everything, I know there’s a lot to work out. I know this isn't simple. God, I know. But I brought us here to heal, and I meant it when I said I forgive you, Malcolm. I want this. If you want it, too-- if you need this-- then it’s yours.”  
  
_I want to take care of you._ Out of everything Oliver said, that phrase rang in Malcolm’s mind, and he found himself kissing Oliver then, harsh and hard, all tongue and teeth and desperation. There was blood in their mouths, but Malcolm didn’t know who’s it was, and Oliver didn’t seem to care; he sucked on Malcolm’s lower lip, one hand snaking up to twine through Malcolm’s hair, the other hand began to undress him. Oliver made fast work of the buttons, nimble fingers expertly undoing them, but then he slowed his kisses to a stop; Malcolm caught his breath has Oliver released his hair, pushing Malcolm’s shirt off his shoulders and onto the cot. Oliver eyed the man before him, taking in his powerful shoulders, his arms, his chest. Pausing, Oliver moved his fingers along the lightly tanned skin, stopping at Malcolm’s ribcage when he found the first scar.  
  
“More on my back,” Malcolm said, tone coy and eyes shining with a mischievous light that Oliver hadn’t seen in a while. “Wanna see?”  
  
Oliver laughed, grabbing Malcolm by his waist and pulling him close. There were more scars along his sides, and Oliver could feel them along Malcolm’s hips, but there was always time for stories. “I think I like what I see right now.”  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Malcolm tilted his hips forward and pressed them against Oliver, leaning close and running the tip of his tongue along Oliver’s lips. “Well then, Mister Queen, that makes two of us.”  
  
“I could show you more.”  
  
Malcolm had been hesitant before; that was gone now, and he shivered at the crooned invitation. He dipped his fingers into Oliver’s waistband, tugging a little. Oliver let out an appreciative little hum, and that was all the urging Malcolm needed. He unbuttoned the jeans, slowly unzipping them and damn near coming then and there when he realized Oliver wore nothing underneath. Oliver smirked at the noise Malcolm made, but the smirk vanished when Malcolm pushed the jeans down over Oliver’s hips, one hand curling around his already-hard length and gently releasing it from the denim confines. The air was cool, as were Malcolm’s hands, but it felt good against Oliver’s hot skin; it felt even better when Malcolm stroked him, once, but Oliver guided Malcolm’s hands back up to Oliver’s waist.  
  
Not yet, he thought to himself, not yet. Malcolm looked at him, curious, but then those emerald eyes fluttered shut as Oliver began to remove Malcolm’s pants. It was a tiny bit awkward, a tiny bit rough, but Oliver wasn’t concerned with that. Sex wasn’t about grace, it was about pleasure, and when Malcolm did shimmy out of his clothes... when Oliver trailed his fingers down Malcolm’s abdomen and brushed his nails ever so slightly up Malcolm’s inner thigh... that was exactly what Oliver saw bloom across Malcolm’s features. It was fucking beautiful.  
  
Oliver popped the top of the lube bottle, putting some in his hand and closing his fingers around it to warm it up; Malcolm was breathing faster, lips parted as he watched Oliver’s eyes. Meeting that gaze, Oliver brushed his thumb across Malcolm’s lips. It was meant as a gesture of affection, but the sweetness turned to fire when Malcolm took it into his mouth, slowly sucking and swirling his tongue. The heat raced up Oliver’s arm like lightning, then straight down to his thighs.  
  
Goddamn you, he wanted to say. Instead, he grasped the back of Malcolm’s neck, pulling him close until their lips just barely touched and lowered his voice into a silky croon. “Keep that up and I might have you put that mouth to better use.”  
  
Malcolm shivered, but he was grinning against Oliver’s lips. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Shaking his head, Oliver tipped his head, biting at the sensitive skin just at the junction of Malcolm’s throat and jaw. He spread the lube in his hand with his fingers, coating them in a thick layer as his kissed up and nipped at Malcolm’s earlobe. “One more thing,”Oliver purred quietly, his slick hand moving between the man’s thighs . “Am I going to regret not bringing condoms?”  
  
“I’m... ah! I’m clean,” Malcolm choked out as Oliver’s fingers found their mark, slicking his entrance. He kissed Oliver’s neck, giving his pulse-point small, desperate licks. “Just... Please.”  
  
“Well. Since you asked nicely.” Oliver smiled, slipping one finger inside him; he was tight, but not as much as Oliver expected, and he curled the finger to slowly stroke the prostate. The hitched, breathy whine the move earned was delicious. “You’ve done this before.”  
  
“Not--” A low moan cut through Malcolm’s words as Oliver pressed a second finger alongside the first, scissoring and twisting inside him. “Not in a w-while.”  
  
Oliver hummed a wordless reply, curling his free arm around Malcolm’s waist, holding him close and steadying him while Oliver began a slow, languid rhythm of thrusts. At first, Malcolm held still, nails digging into Oliver’s back and breath coming in soft, quick gasps; a few strokes in, and he was beginning to writhe, his breaths turning into quiet whimpers. He was getting hot, and he sure as hell was bothered; Oliver could feel Malcolm’s hardness between them, and after a few more thrusts, Malcolm was pressing back against Oliver's hand, trying to take Oliver deeper.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Withdrawing his hand earned a quiet whimper of need. Oliver kissed him back into silence; he wasn’t going to leave it there. He brought Malcolm’s legs up around Oliver's waist, one hand curled behind Malcolm’s thigh and the other behind his neck. Malcolm tensed, trying too hard to keep a hold on Oliver; he didn’t want to get dropped, but Oliver knew from experience that wasn’t going to happen. Oliver held him tighter, leaning back a bit and nuzzling Malcolm’s neck.  “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Relax.”  
  
Malcolm nodded, slowly releasing his death grip. Leaning against the backrest that Oliver’s arms created, he snatched up the bottle of lube, tilting his head a bit as he poured some out over Oliver’s cock. Oliver let out a tiny growl at the coldness, but Malcolm only smiled that damn smile of his; a little torture, for torture in kind. Oliver let out a breath as Malcolm reached between them, slowly spreading the lube and stroking him again, fingertips dancing in little circles around him. He quickly snagged Malcolm’s wrist with the hand he’d been keeping on Malcolm’s thigh, and for a moment, Malcolm looked guarded. It didn’t last long. Oliver put Malcolm’s hand on his shoulder, moving his own to grip Malcolm’s ass; he lifted Malcolm a little, angling himself just right, and the uncertainty in Malcolm’s eyes all but vanished when Oliver pressed up against his ass.  
  
“Do it.” Malcolm swallowed roughly, trying to get the words out as his mouth went dry. “Oliver, please. Do it.”  
  
Lowering Malcolm back, just a little, Oliver pushed his hips up and slid the head of his cock inside Malcolm. The hand on Oliver’s shoulder tightened, and Malcolm leaned against Oliver with a long, soft noise of pleasure. He tried to push back against Oliver, to take more in, but Oliver’s grip was like steel. Malcolm wasn’t going anywhere, and he squirmed as Oliver gave just a few small, shallow thrusts. Moving his hands to Oliver’s back, he kneaded along the younger man’s spine, wordlessly asking for more. He wouldn’t beg again, he wouldn’t, but...  
  
But instead, Oliver withdrew completely, smiling when Malcolm let out a frustrated snarl. “Problem?”  
  
“Please. Damn it, Oliver,” Malcolm hissed, nails clawing deep into Oliver’s back. “ _Fuck me_.”  
  
The magic words. Oliver thrust up into Malcolm, deeper; Malcolm allowed himself a moan, shifting his hips and feeling his mind spin as Oliver begin to fill him. It had been years since he’d allowed himself any of this, allowed himself the contact of skin on skin and the tight, hot feeling of being _claimed_ , and oh god it felt so... right. There was no way that this couldn't be a mistake, he knew it, but goddamn he didn’t care anymore. And when Oliver’s grip relaxed, when Malcolm realized Oliver was giving him control, finally, finally...  
  
Oliver shuddered as Malcolm hilted himself, rolling his hips; he bit down on Oliver’s shoulder, trying but failing to muffle the deep, near constant stream of _yes, fuck, yes, **yes**_. Suddenly he was biting harder, sucking, leaving a bruise before moving to Oliver’s throat, biting again. He let go long enough to snarl a command-- _harder, Oliver_ \-- and Oliver let loose. He almost pulled out, before snapping his hips back up, pushing his full length into Malcolm and repeating at a fast, bruising pace. Malcolm responded instantly, clawing Oliver’s back and crying out like a fucking cat in heat.  
  
“Mnn...” Suddenly, Malcolm’s body tensed, muscles shaking; his arms tightened, thighs clenching harder around Oliver’s waist. He was panting, fingers grasping for purchase more than scratching. Malcolm pressed hard against him, hips giving fast, sharp thrusts in the friction between their bodies “Ol-Oliver...”  
  
Oliver kept his thrusts at the same, unrelenting tempo. He brushed his lips over Malcolm’s ear,  voice a hissed command. “Come, Malcolm.”  
  
He was already there; Malcolm’s teeth sank deep into Oliver’s neck as he climaxed. His body tightened like a piano wire, muscles on fire and twitching. The tension snapped, and Malcolm melted against Oliver in a sweating, shaking wreck. Oliver wasn’t too far behind; his eyes closed, giving a few last, hard thrusts before sweet release washed over him. For a wonderful moment, he felt like he was floating, blissfully blank, and free from pain or worry. And then Oliver was drifting slowly down, coming back into his body like a feather landing on water.  
  
Oliver opened his eyes; it was all real, it had really happened. Breath coming out in a rush, Oliver sank back against the wall of the plane, letting the satisfaction sink into his skin. He curled around Malcolm, stroking Malcolm’s hair, his shoulders, his back... Malcolm was trembling; from cold or something else, Oliver didn’t know, but he pulled one of the blankets over them both anyways. Neither of them spoke. It didn’t seem necessary. It felt like something had been lifted from between them, leaving behind a tangled mess of tired, heavy limbs clutching at each other, bodies worn and empty. It felt right.  
  
Once Malcolm had stilled, Oliver slowly moved them both onto the cot, laying them down and shifting to wrap his arms around Malcolm. The man gave one last shudder, letting out a long, slow breath; soon, Oliver could tell that Malcolm had finally fallen asleep. Listening to the quiet, even sound of rain above them, Oliver closed his eyes and followed. Some time in the morning, Oliver woke, eyes opening just enough to see thin sunlight streaming into the plane; the light filtered across Malcolm’s skin and dark hair, making him look... peaceful. Oliver smiled a bit, tucking the warm, comfortable blankets tighter around them.  
  
Malcolm stirred just a bit, burying his face in Oliver’s neck. His voice was deep and dream-blurred, but content.  “Mm. Don’t go.”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Oliver murmured, stroking Malcolm’s hair and kissing his forehead as they both drifted back to sleep. “I promise.”  
  



End file.
